


Waiting for the moment

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:23:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Hale may be nearly dead and catatonic for several years, but he doesn't spend them idle. He's waiting for his revenge, for his freedom, for his rebirth. And he's waiting for his boys.</p><p>Warnings: Peter is being super-duper creepy towards little boys</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the moment

**Author's Note:**

> This is written from Peter's POV, which is why it seems so erratic and jumps all over the place. Also, there's plenty of pedo-wolf creepiness in this regarding Scott and Stiles both when they're little kids and when they're older, but it's intentional so I shan't apologise if it makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> Feedback is welcome and encouraged :)

> _"I like you, Stiles."_

 

Locked up, silent and unmoving, in a perfect cage. Trapped by his own flesh. And he can't even scream.

Laura has him moved to the Long Term Care Facility, her younger brother a morose statue beside her, and Peter thinks ‘ _You did this. You condemned me to this._ ’ Laura speaks to him, even though he can’t respond, tells him that they’re leaving for now, but they’ll be back when it’s safe, and he screams and screams in silence, and begs his niece to kill him, for his nephew to end his suffering.

They leave him to face the silence alone.

With none of his kind left, his mind slips into darkness. There are moments, brief flashes of awareness – a young woman who smells like rain, an old man who laugh echoes through the corridors, a baby whose breath is soft and infrequent until it stops. Peter watches the trolley carrying a tiny bundle be wheeled away and prays that Death take him too.

He smells tears, hot and sharp, and darkness recedes for a young boy who pauses by his doorway and sobs. The stench of desolation clings to his scrawny body and Peter’s mouth _waters_. He wakes more frequently, the bitter tang of anger and helplessness that oozes from the boy’s skin like poison is more heady and sweet than the finest wine. Or the purest blood.

Inside the confines of his mind, Peter smiles. And waits.

Later, there’s another boy, this one fresh and cool like mint and grass, who finds the other boy, pats his back through the tears and hugs away the watery grins. The scents mingle and Peter wants to howl, to run and bite and split them both open till the ground is red with their blood, little mouths open and dull white teeth glinting in the moonlight.

The scents disappear, but Peter still smells them sometimes, clinging to a woman, a nurse, with wide brown eyes and a scent like syrup.

Inside the confines of his mind, Peter smiles. And waits.

His body heals, slowly, so achingly slow, cell by cell, and Peter repeats the names of those who cost him his family over and over again in his head to keep the insanity at bay.

When the scent of dust and pine needles returns, it’s the sweetest of perfumes, and Peter can _feel_ his body awaken. His sad little boy has grown – now a gangly, awkward thing who seems unable to control his limbs, grinning bravely despite the sling. Peter breathes deeply, taking in that most delicious of fragrances that is pain mixed with guilt, the boy’s father guiding the boy away, ignorant of his son’s torment.

His nurse enters, mindlessly going about her duties. Peter inhales the fading scent, closes his eyes, and _roars_. The sounds of his nurse falter, then stop.

Inside the confines of his mind, Peter smiles. And instructs.

He smells her, moss and grass that still belies her weakness. Her youth. She’s fully transformed, a long, sleek shadow flitting amongst the trees, but Alpha or not, she is too young, too inexperienced, to fight him off. Instincts are all he has, but it’s enough to do the job, and when he returns back to his senses, Laura’s body lies in pieces, blood gleaming in the light of the moon.

He collapses in a nearby stream, letting the water wash the gore from his skin. He can feel it, the power of the Alpha, thrumming in his veins and at last, he feels _strong_ , feels in control in a way that he’d thought had burned away with his pack. The word will go out, of Laura’s murder, and they will come, they will return to him, where he can reach out and rake his claws down their bodies and pulls their flesh from their bones.

But before the Argents, he’ll need a pack.

He knows who he wants.

Mere nights later, the smell of mint lingers in the forest air and Peter _runs_. The taste of blood makes him want to claw and slash, but he retrains himself, and his sweet brown-eyed boy stumbles away, clutching his wound. Peter hopes he’ll survive the bite; beneath all that softness lays a fury and darkness just waiting to be unleashed. He’ll be a perfect Beta.

He can still taste his other boy, his doe-eyed boy, but the scent is fading, growing stale, and Peter’s is too exhausted to try and chase him down. Another night, he promises himself.

It’s not at all surprising that killing Laura and giving the bite all in only a few days weakens him so. His own hubris leaves him far worse than he’s been in years, fading in and out of the darkness to a confusing jumble of colours and sounds. It takes far too long for him to regain his strength, but his new Beta remains close and strong, helping him heal quickly.

It’s an unexpected surprise when he awakens nearly healed to smell his doe-eyed boy close, so tantalisingly close, that he simply cannot resist. It’s foolish and risky to attack in the middle of a hospital, but the memory of tears and pain has his inner beast howling and at last, _at last_ , he stands before his broken little boy and lets his fangs extend.

Fear sharp and rich fills the air, his doe-eyed boy flinching back in horror as Peter’s silly nephew shouts a warning through the phone.His boy turns to flee, but there’s no escape for him, not this time, and he turns back to Peter with something like surrender flashing in his pretty eyes. Peter hums approvingly, readying himself to lunge, eyes on the soft, exposed juncture where shoulder meets neck.

Then Derek is there and Peter nearly screams in fury when his doe-eyed boy runs and his nephew prevents him from giving chase. It’s only his need for a pack, for another Beta, that stays Peters hand from delivering the killing blow, though the temptation to rip out Derek’s throat simmers in his core, but punishment could come later, once his clever little doe-boy lay bloody and pliant at his feet.

When they meet again, blood painting his mouth and a soft heartbeat stuttering beneath him, Peter decides to wait. Looking in those bright doe-eyes, a promise of retribution awaiting him in those lovely depths, Peter decides he wants his smart, beautiful boy to _beg_ , to fall to his knees and clutch at Peter’s belt pleadingly and _cry_ for him to give the bite.

He wants to smell it, shame and helplessness and fury, hot tears mixing with a sweet longing that Peter will be powerless to do nought but comply, drawing his clever little boy into his arms and _taste_ his victory, to become overwhelmed by the triumph in attaining that which he’s waited for after _years_.

That’s why, when he’s located Derek and readies himself to at last have his revenge for the murder of his pack, that Peter Hale pauses and asks.

_“Do you want the bite?”_

Doe-eyes are dark with rage, with hatred, and oh so sweet desire that the refusal doesn’t bother him at all. Because he can hear the tell-tale stutter of a heart, smell the want, see the forbidden wish in his lovely little boy, that he knows should he ask again, later when that anger turns to vulnerability, and he sits alone and wanting, the answer may not be the same. So Peter will leave his darling boy for the moment, but only, he thinks, for this last thing with the Argents, then he can focus on more... favourable matters.

In the review-mirror, he sees his doe-eyed boy reach out for him as he leaves, eyes confused but wanting. Oh yes, when he gives the bite, he’ll have his boy _begging_.

Inside the confines of his mind, Peter smiles. And waits.


End file.
